


Children of the North

by lj_todd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Honor, House Stark, Minor Character Death, Protection, Reincarnation, direwolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lj_todd/pseuds/lj_todd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one quite knows where those direwolf pups came from; there was once a rumour that they were Starks of long past, sent by the Old Gods to look after the ones who could not yet look after themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grey Wind

**Author's Note:**

> So each chapter of this fic is going to focus on one of the direwolves and, just a heads up, I don't come right out and say which Stark has been reincarnated as which direwolf as I want to see if people can figure it out on their own (some are a bit obvious so there shouldn't be too much trouble in guessing who's who). 
> 
> After the last chapter is posted I will provide a list of who was which wolf.

He watched over his family for nearly three hundred years before choosing to be reborn.

He had seen the darkness settling over his family, the shadow slowly looming over its eldest son, and had known the time had come to walk beside those of his bloodline. The time had come to serve and protect those he had once risked everything for. But the form he had taken upon his rebirth was different, yet familiar, and the first time he looked upon his family while in this new shape he realized why. He listened as one, young in face but weary in eye, spoke softly but strongly.

_"The direwolf is the sigil of your house. They were meant to have them."_

He yipped when the eldest son took hold of him, cradling him close, and immediately the bond was born. _Robb._ The eldest son was named Robb. A strong name. Well suited to the boy who would, all too quickly, be forced to become a man. And the entire time, through the fear of the young boy's fall, through the rage of the Lord Father's unjust imprisonment, he walked beside Robb. Silent as a shadow. Ever watchful. Always protecting.

Then came the war.

The darkness he had seen washing over his family, over Robb, and he knew he would need to be extra careful. He would need to protect Robb no matter the cost. After all, death no longer frightened him. Those born of the islands were right in one regard. What is dead never dies. And he would die willingly if it meant protecting his family. Protecting Robb.

The war was fierce.

The war was bloody.

And he fought beside Robb. 

Fought beside the son of his blood. 

Fought and killed for a boy whom the Northern men all declared, with one loud cry, _King of the North_. Not for three centuries had that titled been held. Not for three centuries had the Northern armies marched on the South. It made him proud and frightened to see his blood restored to proper place. Pride for the boy-king who was trying to wield his position wisely. Fearful for he shadow he had seen descending upon Robb grew with each passing day.

And then _she_ came.

The one who made Robb forget his vows and promises.

Made him forget about honour and family duty.

She who now carried the next son of his blood.

A golden, foreign, flower carrying the wolf's pup.

What right had she, some frail easterner, to bare a northern child? When Robb had sworn himself to a girl of the Towers? The shadow around the eldest son grew larger and larger and he was helpless to stop it. Helpless to make his blood son see reason. See the mistake he had made in breaking his word to the Towers Lord.

It made him growl.

It made him show fangs.

It made him hate her for being part of the shadow that he saw on Robb.

He watched, silent and unable to intervene, silently praying that the Leech Lord would speak reason and sense back into Robb. The Leech Lords had always been calculating. Always cunning. He had had one as a loyal advisor in his life before this one. If any could speak sense to the boy-king it would be the Leech Lord. But the Leech Lord's words went unheeded. As did those of the boy-king's mother.

He watched as the shadow darkened until he saw nothing but the shape of his blood son's doom.

When they marched for the Towers, for the wedding that had begun to haunt his dreams, he knew that the time had come. Now was the true test of his willingness to protect his family. His blood son and king. But the men of the Towers were cunning. They locked him in a stable, with permission from Robb, who merely thought them unnerved by his form.

He howled and tried to break free.

And when he heard the song, that horrible, dreaded Lion Song, he had howled even more. Fought harder. Paws bloodied from slamming against the door that barred him. And then he saw her. Daughter of his blood. Sister of the boy-king. He growled, knowing she saw him, knowing she would free him, but he saw the men of the Towers approaching. Knew she could not reach him without being discovered and sharing his fate.

Dropping to all fours he growled as the men stood outside the stable, bolts readied in the bows they lifted. This, the deaths he could smell and hear, was all his blood son's doing. Sweet, strong, naive Robb, who had chosen love over duty. He yelped as the bolts hit and dropped to the ground, able to see his blood daughter from beneath the door. He saw her horror and fear. Saw the large man who grabbed her. Saving her from sharing his fate.

He was glad of that.

His family would yet live despite what Robb's choices had done.

He may have been the King Who Knelt but he knew that his blood son would always be remembered as the King Who Lost the North.


	2. Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter may be a bit confusing as Lady was a female wolf but the Stark who was reborn as her had been male. This is the reason for the use of _he_ instead of _she_.

He had been reborn out of duty to his family.

Out of the need to assist an old king in protecting those who would need them as darkness, a shadow, fell over their family.

He had not returned as he had been. Like the old king he had come back as the great sigil of his house. But different even further. Where in his first life he had been a man, strong and tall but with a gentle heart, in this life he was a she-wolf made small but lean and quick. And when _she_ first held him, cuddling him to her breast, he knew he was where he was meant to be.

Sansa her name was.

Though not of his line's color, she was a sweet and gentle soul. Always smiling. Always full of light.

He would do anything to make her happy.

_Lady_ , the daughter of his line called him. For his even and gentle temper. For her he was exactly that. A lady. A fine and proper friend for the girl who, it was soon whispered in his ear, would one day be a princess. A queen. Her union would join the Stag and the Wolf. Only, he scented what others could not. He saw what no one else saw. 

The Stag Prince was no Stag.

He saw the would-be-prince for what he truly was.

A mangy Lion.

Cub of two Lions passed off as the child of the Stag King.

He saw the darkness lurking in that boy's eyes and he wanted nothing more than to sink his fangs into soft flesh and tear until the light, the life, faded, leaving no further threat to his Sansa. But that was not his way. No matter had badly he ached to protect her from the monster he saw in the Stag Prince he would not harm her by taking away what she claimed to love. He was not that heartless.

If he had known what the future held for his Sansa he would not have been so kind.

If he had known then his litter-sister, also a former member of his blood, would not have been forced to defend the second daughter as she had.

Chained to a post, waiting for Sansa to come free him, he listened to the talk.

The men of the Lion and Stag spoke of the wolf who had mauled the Stag Prince.

Several pointed out that he had not been the one to do so, that they had seen him waiting by the inn door for his Sansa.

Others said it did not matter.

That the Lion Queen wanted blood for what had been done to her child and blood she would have.

So he waited.

Waited until the Lord Father, son of his line, came walking.

Slowly. Oh so slowly.

He saw the regret in dark grey eyes.

He knew his fate was decided then.

The men of the Lion had been right. The Lion Queen would have her vengeance for her child. The only joy he took from the knowledge was that the Lion Queen did not get the wolf she had wanted. His litter-sister had run, escaped the claws of the Lions, there was a chance she would be reunited with the younger daughter. Accepting of his fate, he stood silently, looking up at the Lord Father for a moment as a gentle hand ran over his back.

_"You deserve better than this,"_ the Lord Father whispered, drawing a blade from his belt.

There was a small bit of pain, the strike quick and true, and he slumped, leaning against the Lord Father's chest as his eyes closed for the last time. He whined softly, licking the Lord Father's hand, trying to offer comfort, knowing that the Lord Father would watch over his Sansa, would protect her long after he was gone. She would be safe.


	3. Nymeria

She had chosen to be reborn not just out of family duty or honour, but because she saw the same fierce independence that she had possessed in the youngest daughter of her family.

The same quick temper and love of the sword.

She saw much of herself in the daughter of her brother.

And so she returned to her family in the form of its sigil and the first moment the youngest daughter, rough and wild Arya, had touched her there was a bond. They shared dreams and senses. She ran and felt Arya in her mind, running with her without truly being there. She chased deer and Arya delighted in the chase with her. They were inseparable. Loyal to each other in a way that only Arya's siblings could possibly understand.

They were happy.

Until the Royals came to the North.

She could have survived their coming.

She could have survived them looking down their noses at the daughter of her blood.

She could have lived with traveling south to live in a place that was tame and gentle compared to their Northern home.

What she could not live with was the way the false Stag attacked Arya.

So she had retaliated with fang and claw.

It had been wrong.

She'd known that.

But she would do anything, give anything, to protect Arya. To protect the blood of her kin. But in doing so she had lost Arya anyways. Forced to run, to survive, she had hesitated only briefly, not wanting to leave Arya for fear of what might happen to the girl, but Arya had chased her away. Had saved her by forcing her to go.

They still shared dreams.

But she felt the changes in Arya.

Gone was the light.

Gone was the innocence.

It was replaced by something dark and twisted. Something that caused Arya to harden and her eyes to become old and weary.

It tore her apart to know that she could not stand beside the daughter of her blood.

She had come back to protect and guide.

And life in her past life she had failed.

Each night she ran with the small, wild wolves of the south she would howl and mourn all that she had lost. She would look to the East and howl for the girl she had meant to protect. The girl who was kin, master and friend. The girl she hoped she would one day be reunited with.

But there were nights when she did not look to the East.

There were nights, cold and dark nights, when she would look to the North.

She would look to the North and howl, her voice echoing through space and time to the one who Watched.

She would look to the North and howl as she mourned for the life she had had before this. The life she'd lost just as she had lost Arya.

Lost for love.

One day she would be reunited with those she loved. Those from her first life. Those from this life. It was only a matter of time. But for now she would run, she would hunt and kill and feed. She would wait for Arya to return to her.


	4. Summer

He was the first of his family, the one to form the House that would one day be one of the greatest in Westeros.

He watched, for thousands of years, over his family, guiding when he could and whispering softly in dreams when he had to. But never did he feel the urge to be reborn until the gentle boy was born. The boy whose color favoured the Southern mother but whose spirit was all Northern. A spirit that was more than human. More than animal. The perfect blending of the two.

Seeing what was to come, what fate planned for the gentle boy, he knew it was time.

Walking a second life was different than the first.

No longer was he lord and master.

Now he was companion and servant.

But he was happy.

He and the gentle boy.

They had a bond that could never be broken.

Their dreams and thoughts were one.

Even though the gentle boy did not yet know the truth of what he was. Of what they were. He was patient, he could wait, help the boy discover the truth in due time. And so he followed, he obeyed, and he watched. He saw the gentle boy growing strong and proud. He saw the bright future that was to come. But then came the Royals. The Stag and the Lions. A shadow falling over his home, over the gentle boy, and he feared for the boy.

He was right to fear.

The gentle boy loved to climb.

And one day that love proved to be more dangerous than before.

But he knew the truth.

He knew the gentle boy had not fallen.

He smelled the scent of Lion.

Knew the gentle boy had been thrown.

But he could do nothing about it. He could not tell the Lady Mother what had happened. He could not tear the Lion apart for daring to touch one of his blood. So he stayed close to the boy, knowing that the Lions would not risk him waking and telling everyone what he had seen. He lay in silence, curled by the bed, always facing the door, watching those who came and went.

He listened as the Lady Mother prayed to her gods, those she called the Seven, all while he prayed to those of his family. The Old Ones already watched over the gentle boy, they would protect him, they would guide him back to the waking world.

But then came what he had been waiting for.

The man sent by the Lions to forever silence the gentle boy.

The Lady Mother showed all the fierceness of a she-wolf protecting her cub, but she was quickly knocked aside, falling to the floor with a cry of pain, blood dripping from her hands where the would-be-assassin' dagger had opened her flesh. She cried out again when the man stepped towards the bed, the dagger flashing in the fire light, intending to kill the gentle boy.

The man never got the chance.

Springing from where he had been resting, his form, already large, crashed into the man and driving him to the floor.

His fangs easily found flesh, listening as the man screamed, the taste of blood flooding his mouth as he tore open fragile skin and meat. He did not let go until he felt the man stop breathing. Until he heard the rapid heartbeat faded into nothingness. When he finally stepped away it was with a final snarl before he leapt up onto the bed, curling next to the gentle boy even as the Lady Mother stared up at him, shocked by his aggressive display which had melted quickly into the calm and gentle companion he usually was. He saw the understanding in her eyes.

She knew he would always protect the gentle boy.

Soon his loyalty was tested once more.

When the Iron Child returned from the war, with Iron Men, taking the home that he had built. The home his family had held for generations beyond memory. He stood by his gentle boy's side, along with his litter-brother, loyal and watching. Silent as shadows as they followed the sons of their blood from the shell of a burned home. His gentle boy, unable to walk, was carried by the large one. The one who spoke only a name but had a good heart. The wild woman tended to both the gentle and fierce sons, filling the role of mother that she had never asked for.

And then came the children of the marsh.

The marsh boy who could help to teach the gentle boy of the power he bore.

The marsh girl who sought only to protect and guide the gentle boy.

Together they all went North, only to have the gentle boy decide that they needed to split up in order to stay safe. The fierce son did not want to go. Even the wild woman was against it. But in the end they obeyed. He watched the wild woman take the fierce son and his litter-brother away, heading to some place that may have been safer than North of the great ice wall.

Watching them go he made a low sound, feeling like he was losing his entire world once again. He stood in the snow and watched until they were gone over a distant hill before turning and following after the gentle boy and the swamp children. He could not see where their road led, and that frightened him, but he would not abandon the son of his line. 

No matter what fate had in store for the gentle boy. 

He would not waver in his loyalty.


	5. Shaggydog

He was not kind.

He was not soft.

Even in this new life he was anything but gentle.

In his previous life he had fought with sword and knives.

In this life he fought with claws and fangs.

All while standing aside a wisp of a boy with red hair and blue eyes. A boy whose anger and confusion thrummed through his veins as though it were his own. It was not always apparent, to him or his litter-siblings, why he had chosen to be reborn but when he felt the little one's anger, his confusion, he knew. He had come to protect. Which should have been against his very nature. But the little one needed it. He needed to protect the youngest of his family.

Because no one seemed to see just how vulnerable the little one was.

No one saw the darkness brewing there.

No one but him.

He saw it because he knew it well.

It was the same darkness he had bore in his past life.

The same ferocity.

He couldn't teach the little one how to control, he'd never really learned himself, but he could use their bond to draw as much of it into himself as he could. He could keep some form of innocence in the little one. And so he did. He walked beside the little one, always beside, one of those small hands gripping his fur tightly as they moved. His eyes never missed anything and he would snarl and snap for the slightest provocation. It unnerved those around them, he knew it, the little one knew it, but never did the little one tell him to stop or to behave.

Only the Lord Brother and Lady Mother.

He smelled their fear.

His litter-siblings, those who remained in the North when the Lord Father had gone South, gave him a wide birth. They feared him too. Only his pale sibling, the flame eyed one, had never feared him. But then, the pale wolf had his own darkness, his own madness buried deep inside.

He was fine with being feared.

He barely listened when told by any who was not the little one to behave.

Often he was locked in the kennel because he'd snapped or growled when he shouldn't have. But always the little one came for him. Sometimes it was just to curl up against, to sleep where it was most certainly safe. Sometimes it was to set him free. The day they surprised the cripple and his wild woman in the tombs he had been surprised at the commanding tone in the little one's voice when he'd been ordered to stop. In that moment he saw the Lord that the little one might someday become.

But first he had to survive the coming darkness.

He had to survive to grow into a man.

And that was something that, with each passing day, seemed less and less likely to happen.

When the lowly ward, the Iron Boy who'd grown with the Lord Brother, became a traitor and turned on his family, threatening the little one and the cripple, he'd been prepared to tear the little shit's head from his shoulders. Had been prepared to do what his litter-brother was not. But the little one's cries, cries who the old warrior who the Iron Boy killed, had stilled him. He had followed his litter-brother into hiding, waiting for the wild woman and the half-giant to bring the sons of his blood to the shadows beneath the great house.

And then the Iron Boy's showed their true colours.

Burning his home, the only home he had known in this life and the last, until there was nothing left but a haunted shell.

He had growled, feeling the little one's rage and grief, wanting to maim, to butcher, to kill, but he followed the cripple's words. Heading further North, towards the great Wall, where the bastard brother waited. Where his litter-brother waited.

He kept ever vigilant. Always watching over the little one. Never letting the boy wander too far.

They were still days, possibly weeks, from the Wall, when they were joined by the southern children. Swamp children. A huntress and a seer. They hadn't come to help all. Just the cripple. Only the cripple. They spoke of old tales. Old magic. Things that made his blood boil and his hackles rise. His little one had no need of such things. None. And at night, while his litter-brother watched over their charges, he hunted. Tearing things apart instead of the swamp children. The cripple needed them after all.

When the cripple ordered the wild woman to take the little one, to get him somewhere safe, he was overjoyed. It was easier when he had to only guard two. Though he knew that the wild woman understood him almost as well as his little one. She knew that if it came to a choice he would pick the little one. She was accepting of this. Wild ones always understood and accepted such things.

The little one cried, at first, not wanting to leave his brother. But in the end he followed the wild woman, looking back only a few times, thinking his brother, the cripple, might change his mind and come after them.

He knew better.

This splitting was a change he had foreseen.

This was the time when he would be most challenged in defending his little one.

He could still feel his little one's rage, the confusion, the grief and shame.

He did his best to comfort, to reassure, and though it helped, he knew nothing would have worked as well as the little one's family.

But the family was all but gone.

Destroyed by forces beyond their control.

He would not let that happen to his little one.

He would do anything, everything, he could to ensure his little one was able to grow from boy to man.

His savage nature, the nature he had carried over from his last life, would serve him well in this.

And if his little one turned out just as savage as he was, well, that was quite alright so long as it meant surviving.


	6. Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the last chapter, took a lot longer to write than I'd anticipated but I'm happy with how it turned out. The promised list of which Stark of Old was which Direwolf is at the end of the chapter.

He had never intended on being reborn.

Never.

Not after everything that had happened.

Everything he had done.

But he had seen something, a spark of fire born of ice, and he had been left with little choice but to slip back into the world of the living. He was born not in a familiar form, but one that he had seen many days of his life. He walked on four feet instead of two and his fur was the color of winter's snow while his eyes blazed like the flicker of fire that had drawn him back into the world of the living.

His charge, a son of his blood without truly being of it, bore the Stark colours and was as quiet and sombre as the North. In this boy, who was too quickly becoming a man, he saw the potential for greatness. He saw that spark, that tiny flame, burn brighter as the days passed. Snow, the boy was called, the son of nobility but not noble himself, would make an excellent ruler. If only he had the chance to show those around him just what potential he had.

But the quiet boy showed nothing.

Nothing but his obedience and loyalty to a family that treated him as a lesser child of greater sires.

But he saw what the so called _Father_ had hidden.

He saw the truth.

What had caused fire to be born in ice.

When he dreamed, sharing the quiet boy's mind, he saw the earliest memories. Memories even the quiet boy couldn't truly recall. He saw the boy as a babe, held in pale, shaking arms. Could hear the clash of battle some distance away. He could smell the blood and roses and death. It all told him that the quiet boy would never know the woman who had birthed him. The she-wolf had followed her mate.

In waking hours, when he walked, silent as a shadow, beside the quiet boy he could feel the discontent and unhappiness that wafted from his charge in waves. He hated that. Hated that the quiet boy, who was so good and kind while being strong as Valyrian steel, felt like he did not belong in a place that should have felt like home. That he felt unloved and unwanted by those that were meant to be his family. He hated how powerless he felt at being unable to truly comfort.

And then came the day the quiet boy rode for the Great Wall.

It sent a chill, a shiver of dread, down his spine as he realized that he could not stop the boy, could not reason with him that there were options, better options, than the Wall. Than the black cloaked brothers who were no longer as honourable as they had once been. So, like a silent white shadow, he followed the quiet boy and silently vowed to protect him no matter the cost. He would not let the black brothers destroy this boy like they had done so many others.

The Wall was cold and bleak.

As it always had been.

And he often wondered, even after his quiet boy took the vow of the Watch, if the boy ever regretted his choice. When word came from the South, telling of the Lord Father's execution, the Noble Brother's march to war, he thought that would be the end of the quiet boy's time as a black brother. Broken oath or not, if they went South, went to aid the Noble Brother, they would live. The Noble Brother would not execute the quiet boy for deserting.

But three of the quiet boy's black cloaked brothers stopped him, reminded him of his vow, and they returned to the thrice damned Wall. He remained as close to his quiet boy as he could, through the White Walker that nearly killed the Bear Commander, through the lands North of the Wall and back to it, where he saw the quiet boy grow from Wolf Servant to Wolf Commander. But all the while he felt a chill run through him that had nothing to do with the cold.

He sensed a coming threat.

Winter had come with a vengeance and with it, the White Walkers, but the black brothers did not stand alone. The would-be Stag King came with his army to lend aid, thinking to gain Northern favour. It worked. His quiet boy saw in the Stag King a man worth following. A man who was a good leader and worthy of the Southern throne. It angered him a bit. To know that the quiet boy, the Wolf Commander, would bend his knee in favour of the Stag. But when he saw the admiration, the soft look of approval, the Stag King would give the quiet boy he let go of his anger.

Theirs was a relationship built slowly of trust and mutual understanding.

And when the Stag King rode to oppose the Leach Lords he saw that his quiet boy wanted to follow, wanted to serve and protect the man he called King, but oaths held him at the Wall. Until word came of the supposed defeat of the Stag King. His quiet boy took up arms then, intending to go to the aid of the Stag, only to be set upon by his so called _loyal_ black brothers.

He was helpless to stop it.

Shut up in the quiet boy's chambers.

Until the sultry one, the servant of the quiet boy, opened the door and set him loose.

An old rage filled him as he lashed out with teeth and claws, men screamed and ran, a few tried to fight him but several Free Folk joined him in the attack, word having reached them of the betrayal of the quiet boy. But he was not focused on them. His rage blinded him and he remembered his last life, remembered the blood and death and glowing blue eyes that stared at him with hunger and desire. He tore into flesh, ripping open many of those who had dared attack his quiet boy, and would have gone for the rest if he hadn't been drawn from his blood thirsty rage by a voice, hoarse and broken, calling his name.

It took minutes, which felt like years, to find the quiet boy, bleeding and left to die in the snow. He whined, unable to do anything to save the quiet boy, hating himself for failing to protect the son of his blood. A hand, weak and blood stained, lifted, combing through his fur while a hoarse, quiet voice told him everything was going to be alright. That he would be okay. It made him whine louder. He knew better. He knew his quiet boy was slipping, fading away into the world between life and death and there was nothing he could do to keep him here.

And then one of the Free Folk knelt by the quiet boy, the scent of death and old magic clinging to the weathered man. His hackles lifted in warning but the healer was not put off in the least by him. He watched healer, the sorcerer, murmur and incantation, hand hovering over the quiet boy. He felt the air thrum with a magic just as old as the world and then the quiet boy's breath became better.

More Free Folk came forth then, carefully lifting the quiet boy and carrying him from the castle of the black brothers. He followed, ever watchful, wary of trusting anyone until he knew where they were going. Late one night he heard the whispers, fearful and hushed voices, speaking of their destination and it made the blood in his veins run cold even as he pressed closer to the quiet boy.

The Night's Fort.

While he knew the Stag King's wife and loyal men had taken the castle as their own, knew they would help the quiet boy, he dreaded that place.

He dreaded the memories that haunted the castle.

Dreaded his quiet boy entering it and, like so many, never coming out again.

When he slept that night, curled protectively around his quiet boy, who had yet to awaken from the healing sleep, he dreamt of pain and roses and a pair of blue eyes sharper than any sword, brighter than any star. 

He dreamt of death and rebirth. Of an old line rising from the ashes of war and treachery. Of dragons and wolves.

He dreamt of vengeance and justice.

Of ice and suffering.

Of fire and blood.

And when he woke in the morning, looking at the quiet boy, he knew the path this boy, this son of his blood, would walk. And, despite his fear and mistrust, that path started at the Night's Fort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torrhen the King Who Knelt - Grey Wind  
> Benjen the Sweet - Lady  
> Lyanna Stark - Nymeria  
> Bran the Builder - Summer  
> Theon the Hungry Wolf - Shaggydog  
> The Night's King - Ghost


	7. Ghost - Alternate Version

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this extra chapter was written after my Mom finished reading the books and got talking to me about Brynden Rivers having pale hair and red eyes and how that was, and I quote, "creepily the same as Ghost, so what if he is somehow a part of the wolf and watches over Jon because Jon is a descendant of his brother?". 
> 
> She inspired me to write this chapter so it's dedicated to her.

Over the many years parts of him had fallen from life and drifted on. He usually gave little concern over this. Until one of these parts was reborn.

He saw nothing but darkness at first and then, as this new form of self began to open its eyes he saw the world beyond his resting place. He saw trees and blue sky, felt the warmth of siblings that were not truly his own, and heard the howl of his new mother as she hunted for them. Days drifted between when he would consciously check on this new being that bore a piece of him. It was not a form, he believed, that would be of any worth to him. It wasn't until he saw the boy that he had any true interest in maintaining a connection to this new form.

Young and pale of face, with hair as dark as the cloak he had worn to appease the whisperers of the King's Court and eyes like chips of ice with tiny, nearly unperceivable streaks of purple.

He knew that face.

Even with the colors so drastically different he knew that face.

_Daemon._

His new form whined and pressed close to the boy's chest, a response brought about by his own emotions. He could see the secret of the boy. Could see what was kept hidden so well by a bastard name and tale woven so perfectly none dared call the creator a liar. So the whispers he had heard from the Children were true. The Dragon had lain with the Wolf and, in so doing, had brought about the return of Blackfyre.

He followed the boy, Jon the Winter Lord called him, the blood of his kin, though not of the man whose face the boy wore, becoming only friend and silent guard, as he should have been all those long years ago. He followed Jon from the mighty Winter House, where no acceptance was truly given, to the great wall of ice and cold. He watched, silent as he always was, as his blood gave the words. He knew it would not last. He had _seen_ what was to come. Knew it was only a matter of time.

But then came word from the South, from the King's Court and the boy grew restless, grew angry, and he saw not Daemon but Aegor and it made him, for the first time in decades, uneasy. It was only when the Blind Crow, blood of his blood as well, spoke that the anger melted from the boy. The anger cast out by the words of wisdom from one who had given up all for the sake of peace and family. His boy returned to himself.

Time passed, as it always did, and soon his boy was raised to Lord Commander, the Blind Crow was gone, the flame haired girl was dead, and the Stag King had come to offer aid. And though he bristled to see the boy, to see Jon, swear allegiance and fealty to a usurper, he remained silent and watched. This, he knew, was something that had to happen. It was part of what he had _seen_.

But then came what he wished he could prevent.

The betrayal of those who his boy thought were loyal.

He could see, though not through the wolf eyes, as blade after blade befell Jon. Heard the words _For the Watch_ whispered by treacherous mouths. And he howled his fury in all the forms he held. Snow, once clean and white, now stained red by the blood of his blood and, when his wolf form was finally freed of its captivity, he raced to the boy. He saw Daemon's face staring up at him, blood dripping from pale lips, as a dark gloved hand reaching out to him.

Pressing close he howled as the boy weakly stroked his neck, unable to speak, slowly dying. From the shadows the Children came, answering his howl, but he knew their healers would not be enough. He could smell death in the air. Could taste it. But he would not allow it to another from him.

Those who had once called him sorcerer had been right to whisper. They had been right to be afraid.

It took more of his strength than he had thought, nearly taking all he had, but with the darker skills taught to him by his father's family, the darker gifts brought by his ancestors from across the Narrow Sea, he brought his boy, his Jon, back from the edge of death.

Wounds closed, scarring white against already pale skin, and breathing evened, those ice eyes closing in sleep instead of death and he howled again to know that what he had _seen_ had come to pass. He withdrew, as much as he dared, from his wolf form, knowing he now had to wait for the Crippled Lordling. That was his task now. The Children would see to Jon, and then, when he was strong again, his boy would venture south, would find what he was seeking.

It was a flash across his mind, an image of what was to come.

A sword crafted throne encircled by three beasts not seen in flesh for centuries.

A crown of silver and rubies resting upon a brow of starlight hair.

A dark blade standing silent and vigil, a white shadow following close behind.

_The Dragon has three heads,_ he thought as he peered through his wolf form's eyes at Jon's sleeping face, watching as the Children carefully moved him, taking him with them, far from the dark castle. The Reign of Dragons would come again. And all he had to do was wait.


End file.
